


Toby

by PeopleReader



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleReader/pseuds/PeopleReader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock and Molly make a terrifying discovery outside Bart's lab, they are thrown into a whirlwind case that will leave a bigger mark on their lives than they could ever imagine.  Set around the time of "The Sign of Three," very slight spoilers for "His Last Vow." (The Redbeard spoiler, specifically, at this point).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paws

“Toby’s died.”

“Toby?”

Molly Hooper sighed quietly, brushing off the ignorance of the smartest man she had ever known.  She watched him hover over a microscope, ready to pull away as soon as a revelation struck him.  Toby, evidently, was not a revelation of any sort.

“My cat,” she said, “he was my cat.”

“How?”

“How? Uh, I went to the shelter, and he, um – ”

“Don’t be foolish, I meant how he died.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Molly said, “He ate something bad, I think.  I’m not really sure.”

“That hardly seems like the conclusion of a qualified pathologist,” Sherlock quipped.

“Yeah,” Molly said under her breath, “I’ll be sure to autopsy the cat when I catch a spare moment.”

Sherlock took his eyes away from the microscope for a moment to glance at her.  He was surprised to see that her eyes, averted from his, were glossy with tears.  Perhaps he should have retained the knowledge that she owned a cat, but it was too late for that now.  She was, clearly, feeling extremely sentimental.

“How long did you have him?”

“A few years,” she said, “It’s silly.  He just made my flat a bit more noisy.”

“Noisy is good?” Sherlock asked.

“Better than silence, I think,” Molly answered.

“Mmm.  I may have to remind John of that the next time he makes that face he does when I play my violin.”

A small smile played across Molly’s lips when she made eye contact with her friend – or, whatever Sherlock was to her.

“He missed you so much,” she mumbled, “we all did.”

“Obviously,” he said, leaning back into the microscope.

Another sigh escaped her as she walked to the side of the table opposite Sherlock to tinker with some petri dishes.  She only sighed when he was around.  Nevertheless, she stayed in the room doing practically nothing, waiting for him to need her.  Occasionally, she would catch a glimpse of the engagement ring on her finger, and her insides would shrivel.  She cared for Tom, but he was no Sherlock Holmes.  He wasn’t even a Greg Lestrade.     

“Ah! I knew it!” Sherlock suddenly cried.

“What is it?” Molly asked, not expecting much of an explanation.

“Not Alice, not a match at all – clearly an imposter, I’ll need to speak with John about Miss Hunter.”

“Right, not Alice,” Molly said, as if she had a clue what he was working on.

“Well, I must be getting back to the flat, might have a new case to  solve – ”

“You’ve just solved one – well,  um, at least I think you have – don’t you ever take a break?”

“What for?” Sherlock rebutted, “The game is always on, Molly.”

Choking down another sigh, Molly darted around the lab bench to follow him through the double doors, aiming to walk him out.  She had been through the drill so many times she nearly smashed into him as she exited the room, not expecting his abrupt halt outside the doors.  Sidestepping him, her mouth dropped in terror as she looked down the hall.

“Jesus,” she said, her heart rising up her throat.

Suspended from the ceiling was the small carcass of a cat, torn open and dripping blood.  Its front paws were spread eagle, bound by strings that pulled them away from one another.  Its tail and legs, once white but stained red, hung limp below the exposed insides.  Most of the organs had been removed, but its spine and some left over bits were exposed, which Sherlock moved closer to examine.

“Oh this is _good_ ,” Sherlock said, putting an emphasis on the phrase that only he could, “This is excellent.”

He was about to begin gallivanting around the scene when he heard a choked sob behind him.  Spinning on a heel, he found Molly succumbing to tears with a hand over her mouth,

“I-I think that’s Toby,” she said, turning around quickly and going back into the lab.

Temporarily resisting his urge to study the cat more thoroughly, he followed Molly out of necessity.  She was no carcass, but she was his friend.  He would have to pay attention to her, even if she wasn’t quite as interesting.

He found her in a chair, slumped over one of the lab tables.  Her face was buried in her hands, but her body was shaking with soft sobs.  More than once he had been the reason for her tears, but he had never seen her so completely destroyed.  Moving behind her, he rested a hand on her shoulder, knowing his contact would make her feel better.

“I am sorry, Molly,” he said.

“W-why would s-someone do this?” she said, through her tears.

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I will find out.”

“I know you will,” she whispered.

She hated letting him see her break down, but the touch of his hand was so unusually comforting she was reluctant to stop.

“At least he was already dead,” Sherlock said.

Molly nearly laughed, spluttering a little extra into her hands.  It was as close to sympathy as he could get, and she was grateful that he tried.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” she said, pulling herself together, “I know you don’t understand things like this, I don’t want to waste your time with pretending.  I’ll be ok, I mean, it’s ok.”

She put a hand on top of his, reluctantly sliding it off of her shoulder and standing up.  As she turned to walk away, he caught her by the wrist, and off guard.  She stumbled back toward him awkwardly, looking at him with confusion.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pull you so hard,” he said, withdrawing his hand immediately, “I, uh, I just…I had a dog once.”

“You…had a dog once?” she repeated, slowly.

“Yes.  His name was Redbeard.”

“You loved him?” she asked.

His shoulders were slumped a little, and he was pointing shifty eyes toward her feet instead of her eyes.  She could see that he was genuinely uncomfortable, and felt compelled to take his hand.  He didn’t shirk away when her small fingers wrapped around his spindly ones, he just shifted his weight and furrowed his eyebrows.

“I think so,” he said, “he was my only friend.”

“I would have been your friend,” she said, a little too quickly.

“I think you would have been, Molly Hooper,” he said with a smile.

She released his hand shyly, backing into a table where she managed to send a random assortment of beakers clanking into each other.  Straightening up, Sherlock turned and prepared to reenter the hallway, but stopped briefly.

“I’ve…never told anyone about the dog,” he said, his back to Molly.

“I wouldn’t mention it,” she replied.

Without a word of thanks, he threw the lab doors open and strolled back into the hall.

The game was on.


	2. Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives a present that draws Sherlock closer to a twisted shadow of a man, and her...literally.

“It wasn’t Alice at all!” Sherlock shouted as he entered his flat, assuming John was inside somewhere.

“No?” John asked, emerging from the kitchen, “And there’s no way you could have texted that?  You told me it was of the utmost importance that I stayed here – Mary is at home – ”

“Someone dissected Molly Hooper’s cat,” Sherlock said, “I thought you would find that marginally interesting.”

“Marginally...I, ok, never mind – what do you mean, dissected her cat?”

“I mean exactly that,” Sherlock answered, flopping down in his chair, “They also strung it from the ceiling outside the lab, which is the more puzzling bit.”

“Strung it from the ceiling?  How did someone get her cat in the first place?”

“I can’t figure who would want to bother with Molly Hooper enough to poison and steal a cat…”

“Bother with her?  Did you even say you were sorry?  She loved that cat, you know.”

John sunk into the chair across from Sherlock, preparing for his onslaught of one-sided comments.  He wouldn’t admit it, but he did miss living on Baker Street, sometimes.

“The torso was sliced surgically, but the insides were sloppy.  Exposure, vulnerability, seemingly symbolic, but of what?  Why leave it in Bart’s?  Obviously someone with the ability to disable the cameras, although that isn’t remarkably impressive in a morgue.  Why Molly?  I never saw potential for her to make particularly large enemies, but clearly someone feels a remarkable amount of spite toward her.  I entered the lab around midday for approximately one hour, so our culprit moved swiftly – Molly had been at work all morning, though, so the cat’s body – which, undoubtedly, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to dispose of yet – would have been easy to obtain.”

“Did you ever consider that someone might be using Molly to get to you?”

“Why on earth would someone do that?”

John propped his head on a hand, raising his eyebrows.

“Wow, Sherlock, I dunno, maybe because she’s your friend?”

“What is that eyebrow thing?  Are you mocking me?” Sherlock asked.

  “Not in the slightest,” John responded, “I just don’t think this is a case where you should ignore the human element.”

“Then how can I be expected to solve it?”

“Jesus, Sherlock, I don’t know – just don’t be a dick.  She cares about you more than the cat.”

Before Sherlock could deliver a sarcastic rebuttal, Mrs. Hudson popped her head into the room from the top of the stairs.

“Sorry to disturb you, boys, but Molly’s here, she looks a bit distressed – ”

“Let her up,” Sherlock said, hopping to his feet.

“I’m already up,” Molly said, moving from behind Mrs. Hudson, “I’m sorry to bother you again, but I got something I thought you’d like to see.”

Her face was pale, and her shaking hands held a small box a foot in front of her body.  She looked at her shoes more than the men in the room, her shoulders sinking in relief when Sherlock snatched the box from her hands, clearing a space next to his laptop to set it down.

It was white, about six inches long, three wide, and four deep.  He smelled the top of it, drawing back with a nose scrunch and unpleasant grunt immediately.  Lifting the box with a small shake, he observed the brownish stains across the bottom, snaking out from the clots in the center like a web.

“As I suspected,” he said, returning to his chair, “Where did it come from?”

“Are you not going to open the box?” John asked.

“No need.  It’s the cat’s tongue, is it not?” he replied.

“Yes,” Molly said, “how did you?”

“Where did it come from?  How did it get to you?”  Sherlock asked.

“It was delivered to the morgue, Bill said it was for me but he didn’t know where it came from.”

“Bill?”

“Another pathologist,” she said.

“Right, I forget there’s others down there,” Sherlock mumbled, his hands folded under his chin and eyelids sliding shut.

John took the time to pull Molly – who, in spite of herself, looked somewhat pleased with Sherlock’s comment – aside to the kitchen.

“Are you alright?  I mean, with Toby.”

“I’m a bit sad, yeah, but I’m ok.  I don’t know who would do this, you know?”

“I know, and I’m sorry about him,” John gestured to Sherlock, “He wasn’t the most considerate, I’m sure.”

“Oh, he was brilliant,” Molly said.

“I know, he – wait, brilliant?”

“Yeah, brilliant,” she repeated quietly.

John looked at her a bit sadly, knowing she was still smitten with Sherlock.  His best friend had a surprising amount of compassion, but it was so well hidden few knew, and even fewer ever got to see.  He was oblivious to many things, but John knew he wasn’t completely oblivious to Molly’s feelings, whatever she said about Tom.

A sharp ring cut through their silence, radiating from Molly’s pocket.

“Oh! Sorry,” she cried, lifting the bottom of her sweater and pulling out the phone.

John waved his hands, indicating it was no big deal, and rejoined Sherlock.  Within seconds, she had joined them as well.

“It’s…for him,” she said nervously, holding the phone out toward Sherlock.

His eyes snapped open as he grabbed the phone, staring so intently he might have seen through the wall.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mr. Holmes.  It’s so nice to be chatting with you.”

The voice on the other end was masculine, raspy, but not old.  He had a slight lisp, barely perceptible.  Probably had speech therapy as a child, or maybe some sort of oral surgery late in life.  Deducing over the phone was a major inconvenience, but the voice was better than nothing.

“I’m charmed.  You obviously didn’t pay much attention in school, rather shoddy dissection.”

Molly gasped, containing her surprise too late.

“Oh, you think so?  I kept some nice trinkets from inside.  Such a pretty kitty, I was so sorry he had to go. A tomcat in the truest sense.  He put up quite a fight, in the end.  It’s just beginning, Sherlock.”

There was a click, and their conversation ended.

“What did he say?” John asked.

“Nothing of much use,” Sherlock said, “Except, tomcat.  He called the cat a tomcat.”

“That’s what he was,” Molly said.

“Well, yes, but – ”

Sherlock was cut off by the sound of a gunshot, accompanied by shattering glass.  He could see John hitting the ground in the kitchen, and instinctively threw himself on top of Molly, pinning them down in the living room.

“Sherlock,” she gasped.

“Molly, now is really not the time for your sexual undertones,” he hissed, listening for more shots – or, any indication of who took the shot.

“No, Sherlock,” she rasped.

Her hand clutched his shoulder tightly, and she groaned as she tried to shove him off.

“Molly,” he began, stopping suddenly.

His right hand, pressed to the floor, was touching something warm and sticky.

Rolling off as quickly as he could, he pressed his hand to Molly’s left shoulder, keeping his torso close to her so she could hold on.

“John! Mrs. Hudson!” he yelled, “Call for help, Molly’s been shot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so, this story is probably going to get a little grim as I leave canon. Sorry in advance.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Molly is hospitalized, Sherlock begins making leaps to connect Tom to the shooting, but has he spoken too soon?

“Her fiancé is the key,” Sherlock rambled, “we find him, we put this whole ordeal to rest.”

“Will you stop pacing?” John implored, “I forgot how bloody mad it drives me.”

John sat in one of St. Bartholomew’s dimly lit waiting areas, watching his tall friend stride back and forth across the room.  It wasn’t especially long, so the journey only took him a few seconds each time.  Resisting the urge to trip him, John swallowed his frustration and coughed up a question.

“How can you be so sure that it’s Tom?”

“Oh please, John, that’s rather obvious – first of all, he isn’t here right now, although he surely got a call.  Our miscreant mentioned a tomcat over the phone, also known as simply a tom, and then someone took a shot at Molly and attempted to imply it was with a Beretta Tomcat, although it’s very unlikely one of those rounds could have penetrated both the window and her body.”

“How does one go about implying the type of weapon they used?”

“They leave it on the doorstep.”

Sherlock whipped a small pistol from underneath his jacket, twirling it around a finger.

“Christ!  Put that away!”  John hissed.

“I suppose I can’t make a crack about being in the morgue, this time,” Sherlock said, begrudgingly concealing his weapon. 

“You shouldn’t make cracks about that in the first place!” John said, “And I still don’t see why he would plant his name right in front of us, assuming he is behind all this.”

 “Arrogance, pride, a yearning for attention – it could be any number of things.  I never took a good enough look at him to figure him out.  Based on Molly’s previous affinity to sociopaths, though, it stands to reason he’s another member of an exclusive club.”

“Did you just call yourself a member of the sociopath club?”

“Yes, John, and we meet every other Tuesday.  Thank goodness you’re focused on the important things.”

“And why didn’t you take a good enough look at him?  You take a good enough look at everyone else.  Figured me out in thirty seconds.”

“Ten seconds.  I thought…” Sherlock paused, “I thought it best not to hurt Molly Hooper’s feelings with my analysis, as I surely would have.  I mean, I did notice he hated her cat, used a five blade razor, had a nervous disposition, skipped breakfast, overcompensated with cologne, spent an excessive time with his grandfather growing up, and often spends his nights working a second, secret, job.”

“Right, so, not a good look at all.”

John slumped his head into his hands, a position he usually adopted next to his friend out of frustration more than inferiority.  At his wedding, he had seen Sherlock in a form that was almost completely human.  The longer he was away from the flat and with Mary, though, the more Sherlock seemed to creep away from the feelings he had almost shown.

“Excuse me,” a nurse said, emerging from the direction of Molly’s room, “are you Ms. Hooper’s fiancé?  She said there would be a tall man with dark hair.”

“Yes, and this man is her brother,” Sherlock answered, “is she awake?”

“Yes, she’s just woken up, she’s a little – ”

“Perfect,” he said, moving down the hall.

“Um, yeah, thanks,” John said, hopping to his feet and walking briskly to catch up with Sherlock.

The hall was floored with plain tile and lit with flickering panels of light.  Doors lined each side, plain except for a panel of glass that allowed a peek at each patient.  Sherlock threw open the door to Molly’s room without knocking.  It was as quaintly unadorned as the hall, furnished with a low bed, two chairs, medical equipment, and a small window, with its beige shades pulled.  When he entered she jumped a little, looking at him with a dazed confusion.

“Sherlock?  What are you – ”

“Molly,” he said, pulling a chair underneath him, “I need you to tell me everything you know about Tom.”

John slipped into the room, standing a bit awkwardly behind Sherlock.

“Tom?  He’s not here?”  she asked.

“Of course not, he’s clearly just shot you.”

“Shot…but, no – no, there’s no way he did this, Sherlock, you don’t even know him!”

“I know plenty of things about him, but what sort of fiancé wouldn’t – ”

“We don’t know where he is…” she interrupted, fighting tears, “he could be anywhere, he could be stuck in traffic – he could be shot, too!”

“Please don’t let your emotions blind you, Molly, mine is the most likely of any explanation.”

“Yeah, of course,” she said through tears, “What would you know about caring for someone?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, giving her a puzzled look.  Before he could come up with something to say, the door slipped open again.

“Molly!” Mary cried as she entered, “Look at you, poor thing!”

She made her way to the bedside, taking Molly’s hand.

“John called to tell me what happened,” she said, “In case anyone asks, I’m your sister – that’s how I got in.”

“Oof!” John cried, moving forward as the door collided with his back.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Lestrade said, entering, “Bit crowded in here, isn’t it?”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m here because I’m the one in charge of actual investigations, you dolt.  I thought I’d come let you know I’m on my way to Baker Street, I figured you’d want to be along for our examination seeing as it’s your flat.  How’re you doing, Molly?”

“Fine, thanks,” she sniffled.

“John will go back with you,” Sherlock said, “I have to catch a psychopath.”

“Why do you think I’ll go?” John rebuked.

“Because it’s more exciting than your day job.”

“He has a point,” Mary said with a shrug.

“I – I don’t even know why I argue,” John said, “Fine.  Fine.  I will go to the flat – of course I will go to the flat.”

“Of course you will,” Sherlock mocked, “Oh, and Gary, there’s a piece of evidence missing.”

“My name is Greg.”

“Right, here,” Sherlock said.

He whipped the gun out of his pocket again, holding it in Lestrade’s direction without making eye contact.

“What the hell is this?” Lestrade cried.

“A gun that was left in an unmarked package on our doorstep, I found it while we were accompanying Molly to the ambulance.”

“You aren’t supposed to touch the evidence!”

“The shooter didn’t even use it, it’s to taunt me – to taunt us,” Sherlock corrected himself, remembering other people were involved.

“Whatever,” Greg said, “you can catch a ride over with me, if you’d like, John.”

“Great,” John said, turning to Mary, “Are you…?”

“Oh, I can stay,” she said, squeezing Molly’s hand.

“No,” Molly said, “it’s okay.  Go ahead with John.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Alright,” Mary said, “off on another adventure.  Oh, and Sherlock?”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Behave,” she hissed, planting a forceful hand on his shoulder as she left.

When the door shut behind Mary, an awkward silence fell in the room.  Awkward for Molly, at least.  Sherlock seemed content to think with his eyes closed as she shifted back and forth uncomfortably, not able to relax with him so close. 

“Do you…need something?” he asked, eventually.

“Sorry?”

“You’re obviously not comfortable, do you need me to do something?”

He finally opened his eyes, which made her miss when they were closed.  Now she could only feel the holes boring into her vulnerable skull.

“Uh, no, I don’t think so.  Have you seen the remote for the telly?”

“No,” he said, “would you like it on?”

“Sure – I mean, I guess that’s better than silence.”

“Right,” he said, walking to the television, “We could…um…chat..”

“You aren’t particularly good at that,” she said, a wince creeping over her face.

“Valid point,” he said, switching the television on.

The noise of the television didn’t bother Sherlock – he could block virtually anything out when he needed to be alone with his thoughts.  It was a giggle from Molly that kept his eyes open as he flopped back into the chair.

“What?” he asked, “Why are you laughing?”

“This cartoon,” she gestured at the screen, “I grew up watching it.  It’s about this cat and mouse, Tom and Jerry, and – ”

“What?” he murmured.

“Well, they just sort of, blow each other up, and, um, I guess it isn’t very intellectual, is it?  It would always play when I was up too early – ”

“No, Molly – focus!  The name of the show.  Tom and Jerry.  Don’t you see?  The name Tom has been planted at every step of this mystery.  It can’t be a coincidence, there’s no such thing.”

“Oh…” she trailed off, “I just don’t think he could be behind this.  I know I don’t have good judgment – ”

“Obviously,” Sherlock said.

She snapped her mouth shut, turning her head toward the telly.

“Molly,” he reached for her hand, “I meant the fact you were somewhat smitten with me…before Tom.”

“Right,” she chuckled sadly, “I _was_.”

“I don’t mean to be as insensitive as John constantly reminds me I am,” he said, squeezing her fingers, “It’s easier to get lost in the work when I’m not working for some third party – I actually care who shot you.”

“Thank you…I think,” she said, smiling a little.

He shot one of his half smiles as he patted her hand, releasing it.  She knew he could read her like a book, but wondered if he could tell she felt like a puddle, melting every time he brushed against her.  He wanted to talk about Tom, though.  He wanted to talk about the man she wanted farthest away from her mind at the moment.

“Now, where were we,” he sank back, folding his hands under his chin.

A knock on the door provided another interruption in his thoughts, causing him to groan.

“What is it NOW?” he shouted.

“Sorry,” a small man – who looked very much like a star-nosed mole – said upon entering, “are you Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, of course, what is it?” Sherlock sniped.

“Someone left this with a note saying you’d be here, not sure where it came from.”

The mole placed a brown package, roughly the size of a shoe box, in Sherlock’s hand.  He left the room as Sherlock began ripping through a seal holding the top on the box.

“Another clue?” Molly asked.

“Excellent deduction, Molly,” Sherlock said, “now what have – ”

His face fell, hitting the floor like the lid he carelessly chucked aside.

“Sherlock?  What is it?  Let me see,” Molly demanded.

With a wretched expression on his face, he handed Molly the package. 

“Oh, God,” she gasped.

“Bit more than a clue,” he said, “looks like a deadline.”

“It’s a human tongue…” Molly groaned, “Sherlock, it’s been…gnawed on.”

“The cat probably got it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a bit longer than planned to upload this one! I'll be going back to school soon, but I will try to keep the updates regular. It's about to get really real.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first Sherlock fic, so I suppose I'll see what it spirals into!
> 
> I apologize in advance for being American...hopefully it doesn't show too much. Let me know if there's ever an Americanism I don't catch.


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